Watched
by Phantress
Summary: Oneshot: Raoul reflects on his marriage to Christine during her funeral Mass and begins to suspect that a certain guest may have attended uninvited.


Hello! This is my first story here..._finally_, I know, right? I've been lurking for forever. My first one-shot, so...don't be too mean!

Disclaimer: ...I see such little point in these. But, yes, yes, yes, I know...I must! Don't own Phantom of the Opera. Sorry to dissapoint...I don't own it - that would belong to Gaston Leroux! Hurrah for Leroux! The. Phantom. Bible.

Okay, so read, comment, (please, please, please review!) cuddle, whatever... 3

December 17th was a grey, rainy and humid day. The day we put my wife, my Christine, my little Lotte into the ground. The weather came not as a shock to anyone, as it fit to perfection a stereotypical winter day in England. Every account from my Mother's funeral never failed to note that it was a bleak day. A crack of lightening and the roll of thunder constantly interrupted the entire sermon of my Father's funeral. Quite morbid to say, but it would have been quite a break in tradition for the weather to be bright and cherry.

I stood upright according to my stature in the front pew of the church, with my daughter sitting next to me. She stood as straight as she could for being as sleepy as she was. Victorie's solemn grey eyes never left the closed coffin, but I knew she was taking in every word of the priest, but the true consequences of her Mother's death not quite sinking in yet. On her right side was her rigid Governess, her eyes staring at the back of the priest…but her true concentration was on my daughter, her keep.

I followed Victorie's gaze to the small, fine wood coffin in the center of the room. It was hard to fully comprehend the fact that this was truly the end. I say that Victorie does not fully see the consequences…but perhaps I too have yet to feel the full blow of this lost.

I had loved Christine…like no other love or devotion ever fully exercised by a person. She was my one concern and point of existence: to protect her, to love her unconditionally and to comfort her when she was frightened or upset. She had always been so frightened of the dark. I would be insane if I were to burst out and say, 'We can not bury her…she is afraid of the dark'…they would surely cart me away then! I could do nothing but shake my head at the irony of it all.

I would be a fool to say that Christine loved me with the same amount of passion. She was happy, of course. She had her every whim indulged, all she had to do was ask and I would do my best to please her. We had a beautiful daughter, whom she adored and in return was equally adored by Victorie. She took a delight in being the woman of the house, as if she was playing pretend again Brittany…hiring maids, hosting teas and an active member at our Parish in London. But she was never self-actualized. My wife never was, and never will be, I fear, (I never did believe that damned newspaper article) wholly mine. She rarely sang…but it was not as if I stole her music away. Had I stolen her from the music?

A slam of the church door, guided by the sharp wind, jerked me out of my reveries. I immediately brought my eyes back up to the priest…would this Mass _ever _end? It took a moment of will-power to control my need to turn to see who had dared to show up to this event so late. Finally, I couldn't stand it…I was infuriated…Christine had been _insulted_. I turned sharply, not making any effort at all to hide my frustration…as a matter of fact, I wanted them to feel _guilty _for their inconsiderate behavior.

There was no one there. No one at all.

I turned back quickly, embarrassed. Looking down at the marble floor, I thought for only a second and turned back quickly. My eyes widened at the sight…I could see a faint white stand out in the darkest corner of the church, unoccupied by mourners. Christine's whispers echoed in my mind _…"It's him…he's there, he's here" _

"He is dead." Perhaps the words, hardly audible to even myself, hanging in the air would better convince me?

I willed myself not to look back, not to torture myself further. I attempted to convince myself that I had really not seen anything at all…the truth? I needed not to turn and look that white color splashed into the darkness was quite visible, as if it was right in front of me at the very moment.

The funeral service was far from my mind now, all I could think of was that a man was watching from the shadows. I was convinced, it would have been fruitless for anyone to attempt to tell me otherwise. As I had often tried to talk Christine out of in the past.

_He is dead._

_He is gone._

_You are safe. _

_You are safe with me._

_Close your eyes and rest in peace now._

_He is far from here and you are safe with me._

It had been so easy to say that…because I truly believed that. Why had I not considered an extra…yes, an extra person in attendance? No. Ridiculous. There was nothing there.

It makes a man wonder how often he had been previously watched…was this the way my wife had always walked through life? Aware of some presence, some ominous creature? Haunted by such human suffering that she had no control over…yet drove further into madness. Was I now sending a being into unspeakable self-inflicted nightmare? His love, his protégé, his _obsession_, gone without acknowledged love. Not adoration, not fascination…but love.

It was as if my ears had turned off all interfering sound around me…the voice of the priest, the quite, stifled sobs of Christine's friends… All I could hear was the rain pelting the stained glass windows and the eerie sighs of the church, the whispers of the walls and the creaks of the floor. I could not turn back, I would not allow myself. My knuckles turned white, both of my hands clutched in a fist…ready to react…react to anything.

Adrenaline shot through me when Victorie touched my arm.

"It's over now, Papa. Shall we go then?"

I looked at her, she was the mirror image of my darling, lost, little Lotte in Brittany. I touched her face with the back of my hand, and her little blue eyes began to over-flow with tears.

"Now, darling," I began softly, cautiously. "I don't know what to say…"

"Come, Miss de Chagny," came the firm voice of the governess, Mademoiselle, "Your aunts are waiting for you now, come. You mustn't keep them waiting. It is quite rude to leave people waiting."

I gave Victorie a smile of support, and nodded my head as an extra command to follow. She smiled back weakly, dragging her hands across her face, smearing her fallen tears, and walked obediently to Mlle. Burnett.

"I'll be along shortly Mademoiselle, if you will please excuse me."

Mlle. Burnett nodded in consent, gave a shallow curtsy and rose slowly, still eyeing me as if trying to see my hidden intentions or secrets.

I watched all the attendants file into the Northex of the church, they stood and socialized quietly…. waiting for the rain to relent just a bit so we could continue with the burial without catching death ourselves. Sure that no one was watching, I nearly tripped over myself in haste to the darkest corner, near the church's small chapel.

Only a few feet away, the white did not fade nor draw back. I paused for a moment, glaring. Was I insane to suddenly feel threatened by an unknown? I approached with an unafraid demeanor, but was honestly dreading the discovery either way it could possibly end.

"Papa, it's stopped now, they have the carriage out."

"Victorie, come here. Now!"

She looked at me curiously and walked slowly to me before stopping and looking up at the dark corner…

To my horror, she smiled slightly.

"We should tell Monsignor that the alter-boys have forgotten to light a candle here," Victoria murmured.

I froze completely and then walked over to her, sure to get her exact perspective.

A thick, white tapestry candle hung from low candelabra.

"Oh, yes, we should…or…or, Victorie," she looked up at me, her eyes curious. "Victorie, do you think it should be lit…truly? If it was unlit and ignored, should you bother to go to an unnecessary hassle to get it lit when it was obviously never cared for before."

Victorie furrowed her brow, in the genuine confusion of a daughter confused by her Father's ramblings about a candle. If only she knew I was speaking of so much more then a candle. All symbolism was lost on her.

"Perhaps," she said thoughtfully, "we _should _leave it unlit, as you said, if it was _meant _to remain so."

"Yes, Victorie, we shall leave it then."

I took her small hand and walked through the doors of the main church and into the Northex, leaving the white candle in the dark.


End file.
